The world was a restless thing, but in the spaces between its turning, Zyrán and Hael carved out their own quiet.
Some nights, when the city streets were wet with rain and smelled of iron and damp stone, Zyrán would slip from his window onto the rooftop. He was sixteen then, all restless limbs and sharp edges, his hair curling in the damp night air. And Hael was always waiting.
He never asked how the angel knew. Perhaps it was the tremor in Zyrán's pulse, the unspoken ache in his chest. Or perhaps it was something older, a bond not forged in this life alone.
They sat together on the cold slate roof, watching the world stretch out below them in pools of light and shadow.
"Tell me a story," Zyrán would whisper, head resting against Hael's shoulder, the scent of storm-soaked stone in his hair.
And Hael would. Of things that weren't meant for mortal ears — of cities built in the skies of other worlds, of gardens that bloomed with flowers that sang, of winged things both terrible and beautiful. He never spoke of Heaven, not by name, and never of the war, though sometimes his gaze would grow distant, clouded by memories too heavy for words.
In those moments, Zyrán would reach for his hand without thinking.
Hael's hands were cool, calloused, as though they remembered battles long since lost.
In spring, when the river broke its banks and the fields turned to glass, Zyrán nearly drowned chasing after a lost dog. The current was strong, colder than ice, and as the water closed over his head, he thought for a moment of how easy it would be to slip away.
But then hands like iron caught his wrist, and he was dragged upward, coughing and trembling.
When his vision cleared, Hael knelt beside him, soaked and furious in a way Zyrán had never seen before. His pale hair clung to his face, eyes like storm clouds.
"You do not get to leave me," Hael hissed, voice ragged.
Zyrán shivered, not from the cold, and managed a weak, "Didn't plan to."
And for the first time, Hael crushed him against his chest, holding him as though the world might try to steal him away again.
One autumn, Zyrán brought a stray kitten home, thin and sharp-boned, its fur the color of ash. He named it Moth. Hael hated it.
"It's a creature of in-between places," he warned. "Things like that see what they shouldn't."
But Zyrán kept it anyway. And though he pretended not to notice, Hael would leave scraps of food near the window, and once, Zyrán caught the cat curled in Hael's lap, purring.
"I'm not soft," Hael muttered, face carefully neutral.
Zyrán grinned. "Sure."
There were darker moments too.
A night when Zyrán woke from a dream thick with blood and smoke, the name Samael lingering on his tongue though he'd never learned it. The room was thick with cold, the air soured with something ancient.
Hael was there before he could cry out, one hand pressed to Zyrán's chest, muttering words in a language older than earth and sky. The shadows retreated.
Zyrán clung to him then, too proud to ask for comfort but too afraid to let go.
"You have to be careful," Hael whispered against his hair. "The world's starting to notice you."
"Will you still be here?" Zyrán asked, heart pounding.
A pause. Then: "Always."
They built a thousand small moments like that — quiet touches, unspoken promises, a bond that twined tighter with each passing year. The kind of closeness that slipped past words and settled in the marrow.
Neither of them dared name it. Not yet.
Because somewhere in the distance, the night waited. And with it, something darker than either of them was ready to face.
But for now, there was only the sound of rain on rooftops. And a boy leaning against the one constant thing he'd ever known.